


Evolution (The Rosebay Affair - Part V)

by Saki101



Series: The Rosebay Affair [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Botany, Flowers, M/M, Slash, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2425682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the skies of Manhattan, the little plant develops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evolution (The Rosebay Affair - Part V)

**Author's Note:**

> A further continuation of a [story](http://mfuwss.livejournal.com/359567.html) started years ago because of a flowery screencap and continued from time to time as an Easter Egg over at MFUWSS.
> 
> Thank you to all the wonderful mods and their talented helpers for making the MFU50 Mini Bang possible and to mayamaia [for her lovely illustration](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2421944).

“Immediately,” Napoleon said and hung up the receiver.

“Not her usual tone,” Illya observed as they walked towards the doors.

“I’ve never heard Lisa sound harried.” 

The man waiting by the car with his cap down over his eyes had the back door open before Napoleon and Illya cleared the awning sheltering the front of the restaurant. “Your taxi,” he said and headed around the car to the driver’s side. 

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances at the sound of George Dennell’s voice. They slid into the backseat, shut the door. “What’s happened?” Napoleon asked as George manoeuvred into the evening traffic.

“The regional head of the West Coast offices was found dead an hour ago,” George replied.

“Murdered?” Illya asked.

“Preliminary information suggests congestive heart failure. Initial autopsy results may be available by the time we reach headquarters.” George caught Illya’s eye in the rear view mirror. “There’s an emergency meeting planned to select his replacement.”

“Chen is Number One, Section Two out there,” Napoleon said.

“He’s been undercover in Hong Kong for the past week,” Illya supplied.

“He’s got a new Number Two.” Napoleon was thinking aloud.

“MacDougal went with him,” Illya replied.

“No one’s been able to contact either of them,” George added, sailing through a yellow light.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged another glance.

 

*** 

“This emergency meeting will have the advantage of secrecy, but normal operations are another matter. The locations of some of our headquarters have become known to THRUSH, if indeed THRUSH is behind the death of Marquez. We need strong leadership as well as enhanced security in all locations, especially New York.”

“Because of the strategy session that had been planned between you and Marquez for next week,” Illya said, turning another page in the file before him.

“Exactly,” Mr Waverly replied. “Sean Marquez and I go back before the Spanish Civil War. None of the regional heads in the Americas have as long a history as he and I and since Farenti’s death, only Beldon among the continental heads. Berlin is on highest alert.”

“Other than this possible connection, do we have any theories?” Napoleon asked.

“Not at the moment,” Mr Waverly said. His intercom buzzed.

“The helicopter has landed, sir. Mr Westcott is on his way down,” Lisa’s voice announced.

“Thank you, Miss Rogers.” Mr Waverly flipped the toggle down. “You’re with me, Mr Solo,” he said, standing.

Illya and Napoleon rose. Napoleon lips compressed for an instant. Mr Waverly did not miss it.

He held up a slip of paper. “You’ll need this, Mr Kuryakin, until the new codes come through in the usual manner at midnight.” 

Illya donned his glasses as he strode around the table. He studied the paper for a moment and nodded. 

“One more thing,” Mr Waverly said and reached behind his console. The long-handled metal implement he lifted into view had a large ring attached. Napoleon drew in a breath. Illya held out his hand. Carefully, Mr Waverly put the ring in place and detached the tool. “Use it to open the safe, so we can put this back,” he said gesturing with the implement. Illya did.

The panel in the wall slid shut. Mr Waverly pushed a stack of files aside until his pipe appeared. He grasped it and looked up at Illya. “We couldn’t leave New York in better hands,” he said.

“A red tie goes well with that,” Napoleon said, inclining his head towards the ring. The corner of Illya’s lips twitched. Mr Waverly turned to the door. “At least we had dessert,” Napoleon murmured.

“Twice, I believe,” Illya said and walked back to the table to check the console by Mr Waverly’s chair.

Napoleon waited by the open door as Mr Waverly tucked his pipe into his tobacco pouch. Napoleon took a last look at Illya bent over the glowing lights and dials before he followed.

*** 

The full moon threw the shadows of leaves across the empty room. The plant continued to press its topmost flowers against the screen. The steady sound of traffic rose up from the street. Inside, there were no longer any sounds, but the fragrance lingered. Every pore along the plant’s petals tingled. Tendrils unwound from the side of the casement, a green stem dropped to the bottom of the window, its tip nudged at the seam of the screen and the frame. The spot of rust tasted bitter. The plant took a long drink from its water tray, curled several leaves tightly together and pushed through the small opening, oozed sap and pushed again. Wires parted from the frame. Their broken ends scored the plant’s leaves as the branch pushed through. The plant stopped. The scratches burned. Sap welled up along the gouges, sealing, healing. It was like pruning; it hurt without killing, usually. The stem curved upwards, bending the mesh. Out in the night air, the plant felt its leaves shrivelling. Through its roots it pulled water up, up, drained the tray dry. The injured stem drooped over the hard sill, its tip landing on a surface as soft as a petal. The plant unfurled its tattered leaves, swept their edges over the softness. It was rich with scent. The plant swivelled its blossoms in the dim light. The sweet ones were gone again. The plant thought they were more like birds or butterflies than flowers and prepared to wait. 

Waiting was not easy. The plant yearned for the knowledge of the tap root. One of the plant’s roots had reached the roof. There were tomato plants there in the long box as before, but they were new plants. They were friendly, shared their water with the plant, but had no knowledge of the time before. Another of the plant’s roots was feeling its way between the rough-edged cracks in the pavement on the street below to the chestnut tree. It would be good to see from its leafy crown and share its long memories again, but better yet, through the chestnut and its tall, old comrades in the park, to reach the tap root again. The hem of the curtains ruffled past the plant. It trembled, not from the touch or the breeze, which was gentle and mild, but from the fear that the tap root would be gone like the old tomato plants and that no one would guide the little plant anymore. Since the hard rain, through all the time in the violet garden, the plant had pushed this fear aside. There was so much that needed explanation. So many questions it had stored up to ask. 

On the branch closest to the earth in the gold-veined pot grew a pod. Each day it had become heavier, so that now its tip touched the soil. Each day it became drier. Inside it, something tickled like the curtains brushing past with the breeze. None of the plant’s other flowers had grown into such large pods. They had all been small and light and flat. The gardener in the violet garden had nipped them off when they began to crack and opened them. The plant had tilted its flowers to watch. The pods had been empty. This large one was not empty. The plant was sure and the gardener did not nip it off. He touched it gently with one of his smallest branches and rustled at it. He seemed to know about the pod, but the plant did not understand the gardener’s sounds and needed to learn from the tap root about this full pod and the tickling seeds that were in it. The plant did not think the seeds should float away on the wind in this place where the sun could be cold and the water hard, but it did not know how to make them fall in the soft soil of the golden pot. 

The green stem curved over the window sill twitched and slid along the soft, rippled surface. Its injured leaves turned towards the aroma, moving faster as the fragrance grew stronger. Reaching the sweet, moist place, the stem curled over it and rested and resumed waiting.

*** 

The forty-five minutes to the UNCLE airstrip was not wasted. Mr Waverly pointed out the briefcase next to Napoleon’s seat as they sat down; it bulged with the dossiers of the senior Section Two staff on the West Coast. “You may as well get started,” Mr Waverly had said and under his watchful eye Napoleon had.

The jet was ready to depart when the helicopter landed. The stairs were drawn in before they had settled in their seats. The jet had more amenities than the helicopter and a smoother ride, but the files continued to be the main feature of their journey. Napoleon knew at least half the agents from Survival School, training seminars or joint assignments and most of the rest from the initial debriefings in New York for agents returning from missions in Europe or Africa. 

Napoleon’s memory for impressions was unmatched even in a profession where it was an essential skill. After years, he could still recall the timbre of an aside, the subtle gesture that revealed the sadist beneath the façade of the dutiful agent, the smell of fear on those whose temperament better suited other sections than Operations and Enforcement. He could also spot those willing to play in the few off hours that agents had. Illya’s professional skills had been apparent immediately. It had taken a little longer to uncover his playful side. Napoleon smiled.

“Something amusing about that agent, Mr Solo?” Mr Waverly asked, seemingly still reading the dossier open on his knee.

“No, sir. Just a pleasant memory, sir,” Napoleon answered, smile nearly suppressed.

“If your mind is wandering, you had better sleep,” Mr Waverly directed. “I need you focussed when we land in San Francisco.”

Something unbent at the word sleep. “Yes, sir,” Napoleon replied, returning the file to the briefcase on the floor. Whether Mr Waverly ever slept was a question among the agents. The general consensus was that he probably didn’t.

Napoleon slipped off his shoes and socks and his already loosened tie. His jacket was hanging over the back of one of the seats. He undid his cuffs and the button at his waist. With a yawn, he pulled the blanket folded at the foot of the couch over him, stretched, rolled onto his side and slept.

Illya was waiting for him. Illya had inhabited Napoleon’s dreams long before he had inhabited his bed. Indeed, beds hadn’t played as large a part in their couplings as they had in other of Napoleon’s adventures. To a private life that had never been mundane, Illya had added a danger that surpassed that of sleeping with THRUSH agents or maidens with rifle-toting fathers. Touching Illya had been a risk, a step not to be returned from, as definite as death.

In his dreams, Napoleon had danced with death. Death’s face had changed with the season, the mission, the fashion, until he met Illya and Death had assumed his pale aspect and withdrawn from the dance. Amused and detached, brilliant and lethal, Illya stalked through the shadows of Napoleon’s slumbers and no danger could touch him because Death himself had Napoleon’s back. In his reveries, Napoleon would see a glimmer in those cool, knowing eyes, a smile that was more than sardonic on those mobile lips. He would wake too warm, bedclothes kicked to the floor. 

By daylight, Napoleon found himself searching for the same signs. Illya noticed. One afternoon in UNCLE’s gleaming corridors, he had turned away, faintly smiling, from Napoleon’s watchful look and everything about the motion had been a dare. Napoleon’s muscles had tensed as he held himself in check. He had waited for the steel doors of the elevator to close on Illya’s back. In nightmares and dreams alike, Napoleon relived that moment. 

As the elevator had risen, Napoleon had taken the stairs two at a time down. Pausing for a couple deep breaths, he’d smoothed back his hair and straightened his tie before walking into Translation smiling his deadly smile. Three heads had been lifted from their tasks to look at him and then at each other. 

Mandy had stood. “How can I help you, Napoleon?” she had asked as if she hadn’t known and batted her long, dark lashes.

“I need something in the archives,” Napoleon had replied. There might have been a murmur from the others.

“Something in Portuguese?”

“In Portuguese,” Napoleon had affirmed and strode past her toward the door to the spiral stairs leading down. He hadn’t looked back either, but he had heard her heels on the tiles.

He’d left her with a kiss amidst the yellowing cables and fading telex paper to tidy her clothes.

The others had glanced up when he reappeared in the office alone. Liesl had met his eyes. “I need to view a film,” he had said to her although his hands were empty.

Liesl headed towards the projection room. “This one’s free,” she had said and stood by the open door until Napoleon had passed her. She had locked the door behind her, kissed him hard when he turned at the sound. Liesl was as tall as he was, strong and athletic. She could give an excellent massage, knew how to hurt as well as soothe.

Later, panting, Napoleon had looked up at Liesl’s shining face. She had laughed quietly and rolled her hips faster. Liesl rode well, horses and men.

She left him on the floor to recover. At the door to the washroom, she turned. “Who said, ‘no’, Napoleon?”

“I haven’t asked,” he replied.

“Poor boy,” Liesl said and left him in the dark.

When he didn’t hear the water running anymore he got up. Liesl had left by the other door. Once presentable, he did, too.

He’d come back before five. Mandy had smiled at him. Liesl had raised an eyebrow. Napoleon walked to Hideo’s desk. He looked over his glasses at Napoleon. “Third time’s the charm?” Hideo asked.

“Parking level two, row three,” Napoleon replied. “Five o’clock.” 

Hideo glanced at the wall clock, the long hand on the ten, then at his colleagues. Liesl tilted her head towards the door, Mandy waved her hand at it. 

Napoleon left.

Hideo straightened the papers on his desk and followed.

Napoleon was backing the convertible out of its space when Hideo arrived. He hopped over the closed door into the passenger seat.

“You been practicing that?” Napoleon asked.

“Yup,” Hideo answered.

At the end of the exit ramp, Napoleon’s hand hovered over the turn signal. “Left,” Hideo said. “I think I have what you need at my place.”

 

When he was dressing, Napoleon asked, “What did you think I needed?”

“To make up your mind,” Hideo replied, unfastening Napoleon’s tie from the bedpost and tossing it to him.

 

In a hotel room in Singapore, Napoleon had made up his mind. He’d reaffirmed it in a garden in Trinidad, on a balcony in Manhattan, with every mission, especially those where he and Illya were apart. He liked those missions less and less, liked the flight to California very little.

“Twice,” Illya’s voice said in Napoleon’s dream and there was a laugh in it.

“Twice,” Napoleon mumbled in his sleep. 

Mr Waverly peered over his file at the slumbering form on the sofa and raised a bushy eyebrow before returning to his reading.

*** 

It had been close to a miracle that they had made it back to New York in time for Napoleon to confirm the dinner reservations he had made weeks earlier. 

“Am I not famous for my luck?” Napoleon said as he dialled an outside line.

“Who are you calling?” Illya asked over the steady clacking of his typewriter.

“You really don’t need to look at the keys, do you?” Napoleon said, watching Illya’s progress before raising a finger to his lips.

“Marcello! Bello amico! I can confirm for tonight. Is it too late to have the dessert I wanted? Perfecto! At eight. In the back corner. Yes. Antipasto and veal parmagano for two. Yes. Give Vito my best. Ciao.”

“Is this why we wasted our time searching for his restaurant in Rome?” Illya asked.

“He was in the process of moving to New York. His reputation has preceded him. Reservations are not easy to come by,” Napoleon said, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Except for you,” Illya remarked, hitting the carriage return.

“Even _I_ had to book in advance to get what I wanted to feed you,” Napoleon said. He poked a few files around on his desk. “You are going to love this.”

“I think you belong in an asylum with your beloved cook,” Illya replied and pulled the form he was filling out of his typewriter and signed it. “Here, you need to sign this one, too.”

“Chef,” Napoleon corrected, taking the paper and signing it. “Artist, lover. You will understand at dinner.” He handed the form back to Illya.

“You didn’t read any part of that.”

“I trust you with my life, Illya. I can certainly trust you with my paperwork,” Napoleon answered, finally settling into his chair. “We are leaving at the stroke of five. We’ll need to change for dinner.”

Illya groaned. He positioned another form in the typewriter. 

“It will be worth it, you will see.” Napoleon began to hum Figaro’s aria.

Illya typed faster.

*** 

Napoleon took a deep breath and pressed his nose against the back of the couch.  
Mr Waverly closed one file, glanced at his agent, opened another folder. 

To either side, the jet engines hummed.

 

The bedroom had smelt sweet when they got home. Illya had gone straight to the shower, Napoleon had set out their clothes for the evening. He had favourites. He was wiping the last speck of dust off his dress shoes when Illya opened the bathroom door. Napoleon watched Illya cross the room in nothing but the towel around his neck. It was always a pleasure to watch Illya move. They’d come out of their latest mission with little more than scraped knuckles. It had been a welcome change. Illya picked the pair of boxers up from the bed, bent slightly and lifted one leg. Napoleon inhaled. The steam had intensified the fragrance. 

“Don’t put them on,” Napoleon said and his voice was suddenly tight.

Illya looked over his shoulder. “I thought you wanted to be on time.”

A few steps and Napoleon was behind Illya. He pulled the towel from Illya’s neck, wiped off the droplets on his back and leaned down to kiss away one that had escaped. Napoleon closed his eyes to savour the combined scent of Illya’s skin and the aroma in the room. “We have a little time,” Napoleon murmured against Illya’s neck. His hand smoothed along Illya’s hip. 

A breeze ruffled the curtains. The smell intensified. Illya shivered.

“I’ll close the window,” Napoleon said, taking half a step towards the bottom of the bed.

Illya’s hand closed over Napoleon’s like a vise. “Leave it. The air is invigorating.”

“That’s one word for it.” Napoleon pressed closer, his free hand roaming lower, his teeth sinking in Illya’s shoulder. He stopped before the skin broke. “We might disturb the neighbours,” he murmured.

“I can be very quiet,” Illya said. “Can you?”

“Quiet and quick and still on time for dinner,” Napoleon declared and nudged Illya forward.

“We’ll see,” Illya replied, rolling Napoleon over his hip onto the bed and landing with his thighs on either side of Napoleon’s chest as Napoleon bounced. Illya pressed him against the mattress. 

Napoleon growled and reached for Illya’s hips. 

“Noisy,” Illya chided. 

“I’ve a remedy for that,” Napoleon whispered and didn’t take his mouth away from Illya’s skin until Illya collapsed onto Napoleon’s chest, soundlessly.

Napoleon quipped about their having had dessert before dinner on the way to the restaurant. Illya had tapped his finger against his lips and said that he might have room for seconds. Napoleon had followed the gesture and found it difficult to take his eyes away. 

 

Napoleon flung an arm out from under the thin blanket and mumbled. His body settled more heavily into the cushions, his breathing slowed and the images in his mind faded to darkness.

*** 

“Dr Sawada asked whether you have a free moment,” Lisa said when Illya switched on the intercom.

“No, but please ask him to come in anyway,” Illya replied. He looked up with a half smile when Yukio Sawada came through the door.

“You haven’t slept in how long?” Dr Sawada asked.

Illya gestured towards a chair. “Has Medical deputised you?”

“That was as a friend, Illya,” Yukio said. 

“A couple hours this morning,” Illya answered.

“If you were a plant, I’d give you extra water and fertiliser to offset the stress of being transplanted to headquarters. You haven’t been home since Mr Waverly and Napoleon left.” Sawada stopped next to Illya, poured the rest of the water in the carafe near him into his glass and took the carafe to the sideboard. He put down the bag he was carrying to refill the carafe. “Since you aren’t a plant, I brought some of my mother-in-law’s cooking to revive you.” Sawada removed several containers from the bag and took two plates from the sideboard. “Speaking of plants though,” he continued as he filled the plates, “I was wondering whether you’d let me have some of your hair.”

Illya swivelled in his chair, glasses dangling from one hand. “Something organic from me for the plant?”

Sawada brought the plates and silverware to the table, set a serviette next to Illya’s plate and unfolded his own. “Nail clippings would do, but I see that you’ve trimmed yours recently.”

“You’ve observed a change?” Illya asked, a full fork halfway to his mouth.

“Three hundred percent growth increase from the second day in your flat,” Dr Sawada said, “and that was with you and Napoleon being gone at least half the time.”

Illya took a drink of water. “You think Napoleon has the same effect?” Illya asked and dabbed some yoghurt onto a stuffed grape leaf.

“I didn’t notice any correlation while the plant was down in the lab,” Sawada said. “There was a strict correlation to when _you_ were at headquarters with more marked responses when you’d been in the lab.” Sawada took a bite of kibbeh. “There was one anomalous growth spurt during that time, but it was never repeated, so I can’t even hypothesise as to what caused it.”

Illya’s cheeks grew pink. He took a long drink of water, set the glass down a bit hard.

Sawada looked up. “Ah, I should have warned you that the sujuk is rather spicy.”

Illya nodded, speared the stuffed grape leaf and ate it.

“However, going by our combined notes, since the plant has been back on your balcony, it seems to grow the same amount whenever you or Napoleon is in residence, more when you both are and the least when you are both away.” Sawada pointed with his fork towards Illya’s plate. “Try the pickled aubergine. It’s my mother-in-law’s specialty.”

Illya cut the small vegetable in half. “So, it’s not been doing well recently?”

“A steady, downward slope from about two days after you moved here,” Sawada said. “Although one branch has grown through a hole in the screen on your bedroom window. I don’t think I can extract it without pruning it. Shall I?”

“No,” Illya said quickly. “The screen needs replacing anyway. You can cut the mesh to extract the plant or leave it there.”

Dr Sawada chewed slowly, watching Illya. “The stem that grew through the window is the one that’s grown the most, despite receiving less sun than the main part of the plant.” 

“That’s why you want some hair,” Illya said.

“If a pet took to sleeping on its owner’s bed in its owner’s absence, no one would think it strange,” Sawada remarked. “Veterinarians often recommend pet owners leave an item of clothing with their pet while it is at a kennel to soothe it.” 

“Is that why you think it grew into the bedroom?” Illya asked. He ate another piece of aubergine. “What are you going to do with the hair? The plant didn’t make a specific request, did it?”

“Not unless it’s communicating telepathically.”

Illya’s brows drew together and he drank more water.

Yukio smiled. “Well, I was going to mix it in with the soil, but I’m thinking now that I might put it in some plain water on the other side of the balcony and see what happens. We did something similar with fertilised water down in the labs.” 

“I recall,” Illya said. “The roots grew across the counter to reach the dishes.” Sawada nodded. “How mobile do you think it is?”

“All plants are phototrophic, mostly positively seeking light, although some negatively to reach solid objects to grow on, for example,” Sawada said. “Hydrotrophic as well.” Sawada tapped his fork lightly against his plate. “There was a constant supply of water in the plant’s tray in the lab, but it was unfertilised. This time, I’ll add fertiliser to the water tray beneath the pot and plain water to the dish with your hair.”

“Why add any water?” 

“Oh, just so the hair doesn’t blow away.” Yukio replied. He took another bite of kibbeh. “Besides it will get wet when it rains.”

“True, but why not add a barrier, like the screen, but with a small hole and see if the roots find it?” Illya suggested.

“I could use gauze,” Yukio said. “And put the hole on the far side.” 

Illya’s hand reached behind his ear, fingers combing through the thick hair to rub at his scalp. “Take some from back here, then, when we’re finished,” he said. He cut his first slice of sujuk. “And give my regards to your mother-in-law.”

*** 

“Oh, you still have it, Jack-o,” Jack Dupree said as his toes touched the roof top. He skipped lightly across the cooling tar, drawing the glider wings in close to his body, putting more weight down with each step.

“Those idiots that bought the circus had no eye for talent,” he grumbled to himself as he came to a stop. He peered around the roof, saw nothing alarming in the ambient glow of the city. He listened. He heard nothing but the rumble of a few passing cars and the faint rustle of the leaves of the trees along the street and in the park beyond. It was so late, it was early. He sniffed and smiled. “Some city gardener pining for greener climes.” He folded the silken wings with precision before strapping them together and setting them by the long box of tomato plants. “Someone knows what they’re doing with you,” he said, curving a hand around a large, warm tomato. He inhaled again and squinted into the shadows. A light breeze blew out of them. “Mint and basil, too. Ginny’d put all of you to work in her sauces,” he whispered. He tucked a couple straps beneath the edge of the flower box. “Learn something wherever you go, don’tcha know,” he whispered to the plants. “Good luck for me the old bat needed some help when my car broke down out in the back of beyond,” Jack said. He chuckled. “She’ll have to find another poor soul to serve up her stewed tomatoes now.” 

Jack crept to the edge of the roof and gazed down the façade of the apartment building, noting the darkness of the windows. “Not even security grating on the balcony doors.” He shook his head. “This is what that Marton fella thinks is a job requiring the specialised skills of Jack-o the Magnificent, who sailed across Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon to cheering crowds and brass bands.” Jack chuckled again, patting the plump money belt around his middle as he walked back to the flower box. “Still, he pays cash up front,” he confided to the tomatoes as he unhitched a coil of rope from his belt and wrapped it around the nearby chimney stack. “If I could find whoever threw that beer bottle out their car window that sliced up Marton’s tires, I would buy them a drink. That was certainly _my_ lucky day.” He tugged at the rope and stepped slowly backwards towards the edge of the roof.

*** 

The plant was drowsing, content with the fresh air and the occasional tickling touch of a moth. The weight of its long, full seed pod had stretched its lowest branch into a pleasing arc over the edge of the new pot. The pod’s husk was beginning to crack along its seams, but the plant was serene. The gardener had spun a loose cocoon around the pod without depositing any eggs in its folds that the plant could feel. Now the seeds wouldn’t float away on the wind when the pod opened completely. The plant wished it could have understood what the gardener meant as he worked on the balcony, for he buzzed and hummed the whole time and the plant could tell that there was meaning in the sounds. The gardener had placed a long, narrow box next to the golden pot. The plant could smell the rich dark soil with which he had filled it and knew, even without knowing the language, that that was for the seeds when they were ripe. 

In the night breeze, most of the plant’s leaves swayed. The branch inside could barely feel the movement of the breeze. It was content to savour the last traces of the sweetness left by the wayward bird-flowers. The fading of the fragrance had made the plant’s leaves droop, but the gardener had brought something delicious during the day. Perhaps he had meant it for the seeds when they emerged, but the plant could not resist and all during the afternoon and the evening it had untangled its roots until one was free that was long enough to reach this other cocoon nestled in the corner near the large opening in the stone. The plant had wormed the tip of the root through the cocoon’s layers. Xylem sap tingled along the root, up the plant’s main stem and out into every branch and leaf and petal. Inside the pod, the plant felt the seeds stir against their husk. There was something in this other cocoon from the bird-flowers. The plant was certain. It knew the flavour that permeated the fibres like nectar. The plant extended a second root and a third, anchoring the cocoon. The plant would not let some sudden gust of wind blow it away. 

Far below the balcony, between the pale, flat stones there, another of the plant’s roots burrowed. It would reach the oak tree soon and then…and then…well, the plant did not want to get ahead of itself. It absorbed a little more sweetness from the bird-flower cocoon, and in the excitement of the moment, unfurled a few leaves and opened a bud, though it was far from dawn.

The opening bud saw, against the dark stone, a darker shape, like a huge insect looming ever larger. In alarm, the plant’s leaves rustled. The bug landed on the balustrade with a faint thump. Sharp heat coursed through the plant as the enormous bug crushed several leaves. It hopped to the floor of the balcony, knocking against the pod. The halves of the pod parted. Sap surged through the plant’s veins, began to ooze from the edges of its leaves. The insect sidled towards the large opening in the stone. It wants the bird-flower cocoon, the plant thought. The bug tapped and slithered around the sealed opening, sending the bird-flower cocoon skittering towards the edge of the balcony. A root snapped with a fine, white pain. Sap oozed more thickly and the air grew thick with the smell of it. The plant sunk its two remaining roots deeper into the cocoon, stopping its skid. From the comfort of the room, the plant drew its longest branch, past the rusty spines that protected the small opening. It curled the leaves of the branch as tightly as it could, but the spines scratched and tore. 

With its pincers, the bug clicked and rapped, chittering softly. The cover over the large opening peeled slowly back. The bug pushed at the foliage that hung over the opening with one leg and scuttled forward on its others. 

With a fierce heave, the plant ripped the branch free of the screen, arching upwards with a whistle and whipping down to the floor with a twack. The bug turned its pallid face up and to either side. It did not look down at the floor. _Foolish bug._ It resumed its progress. The tip of the branch reared from the floor, lunged towards the warmth of the bug’s nearest leg, curled round and round and up its hairy heat. The bug shook its leg and the branch slid higher under the bug’s shell. The bug shook its leg again, reaching down with another to where the branch was rubbing its sap into the soft skin beneath the insect’s carapace. The bug hissed. The loop of the branch tightened and pressed its splintered wood into the increasingly moist skin. The bug dropped onto its back and kicked. It gurgled and spat and then it was still.

The branch went slack. Its stem burned where it was splintered. Its tip was withering from the bug’s bitter dew. The plant drew its mangled branch away. Its other branches drooped over the balustrade, its flowers fell, its sap dripped. The night air felt too hot and too dry. The plant’s roots twitched between the damp patches at the bottom of the water tray. It barely had the strength to drink, but it held on to the cocoons. 

*** 

“Miss Rogers?” Dr Sawada said, uncertain of the voice on the other end of the communicator.

“Dr Sawada, good morning,” Lisa replied, the strain in her tone insufficiently suppressed.

“Is Mr Kuryakin free?”

“He’s with Mr Waverly. Probably will be for some time,” Lisa answered. She paused an instant. “Is there something I could help with?”

Sawada took a deep breath. “Glad he is safely returned. Could you authorise a clean-up crew and someone from Medical to come to Mr Kuryakin’s flat? Security breach. One dead intruder, cause of death uncertain, intent unknown. I’ll advise my department and wait here.”

Sawada could hear clicks over the line. “Twenty minutes for Medical and clean-up,” Lisa said briskly. “Building security’s on their way upstairs to you now. I’ll pass the message to Mr Waverly and Mr Kuryakin.”

“Thank you,” Sawada replied, but the connection had already cut. He put his communicator away as he stepped over the half-soaked body onto the balcony. “Let’s see what I can do for you, my vigilant friend.”

The plant opened the tattered petals of one bud. 

“That’s the spirit,” Sawada said, glancing from the flower to the root-entangled bundle of gauze that held Illya’s hair clippings. He took a packet from a pocket and bent down to sprinkle blue grains into the water trough. “Good for you that it rained this morning.” He opened another packet over the water tray. The short hairs floated on the surface of the water. Sawada slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and tapped the hairs until they sank. “Let’s see if that helps while I try to mend this.” Sawada knelt by the long bough on the balcony floor, took a notepad and pencil from another pocket and began to catalogue the damage, talking softly as he wrote.

*** 

Pale sunbeams were making their way through the clouds. The plant tilted its leaves towards the light and its remaining flowers towards the gardener to watch. He was touching the injured bough lightly. The faint pressure felt good, like the weight of a pollinating insect. The tap root had told the little plant about such things before the lightning and the silence had come, but none of the butterflies or moths or bees had ever succeeded in pollinating it. That had had to wait for the violet garden and the bird-flowers. 

_The seeds!_ The plant rustled its foliage and the gardener looked over his shoulder. There was no breeze. The plant fluttered the leaves of just the arched branch. 

*** 

Sawada turned on his knees, his eyes following the leaves swaying as though a shiver were running through the plant to the wrapped pod at the end of its lowest branch.

“Your pod,” he murmured and shuffled closer. The branch was nearly broken in two where the pod joined with the stem; the dark seeds were visible through the thin layer of gauze, weighing the threads down. “I covered that just in time,” he continued. 

“Dr Sawada.”

Sawada looked up. Algernon Quinn was hauling a rope up over the edge of the roof. “We’ll be right down, sir.”

Sawada nodded. “Any damage to my tomato plants?” he asked.

“They seem fine, sir,” Quinn replied. He called over his shoulder. “Vinod, double check the plants.”

“Will do.”

Quinn and the rope disappeared from view.

 

Sawada propped up the damaged pod stem. “This will have to do for now,” he said. He emptied a clean ashtray-full of rain into the water tray and surveyed each stem of the plant. The untorn leaves were more upright than when he’d arrived. “When we’ve sorted out our nocturnal visitor, I’ll look after that properly.”

A long, dark bundle preceded Algernon Quinn and Vinod Gamage into the flat. They shut the door behind them. “Wings,” Quinn said in response to Sawada’s raised eyebrows. They set the bundle on the floor and hurried to the balcony. “It would appear he glided from one of the taller buildings nearby. There may have been scuff marks where he landed, which would help determine his direction, but the rain is making that hard to see right now.” 

Quinn and Gamage bent over the body, noted the coagulated blood along the scratch and the other red and pink lines around the calf of the dead man. “So the strangler plant’s completed its training,” Quinn said, glancing over at the plant.

“Training?” Sawada echoed.

“Mr Kuryakin mentioned that it wasn’t fully trained when he and Mr Solo were leaving headquarters with it,” Quinn explained.

“We thought it was a houseplant,” Gamage added with a huff. “We should visit your labs more often.” 

“Yeah,” Quinn agreed. “We get caught up in the hardware and forget about the biotech side.” He shook his head. “We shouldn’t do that.”

“No,” Sawada said thoughtfully. “A lot of potential in both fields.”

Sawada’s communicator beeped. “Lister here. We’re in the elevator,” a voice said. “Medical’s parking out front.” Sawada peered through the balustrade. Two people were crossing the pavement, one pushing a wheel chair in front of her.

Gamage was leaning over the balcony. “The wheelchair will be less conspicuous than a stretcher,” he said. He turned towards the doors. “We’ll get going on the sweep of the apartment, sir, if you don’t need us for anything here.”

“No, carry on,” Sawada said, getting up and swatting at the damp patches on the knees of his trousers.

*** 

Mr Waverly closed the file. “Cause of death: oleandrin,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Dr Sawada replied.

“Whether the THRUSH operative had been sent to retrieve the plant or only to install the surveillance devices in Mr Kuryakin’s flat that he had on his person will remain unclear, unless Victor Marton cares to drop us a line of clarification.” Mr Waverly tapped the edge of the file against the table. 

“Possibly a little too convenient that the dead man had Marton’s card on him,” Illya offered.

Mr Waverly gazed across the table. “Yes, possibly. Although we shouldn’t underestimate their arrogant stupidity either. Recruiting an ex-circus performer that he appears to have met a few days ago at a wayside diner to infiltrate the home of a top UNCLE agent? I would expect better of Victor.”

“A rendezvous, then?” Illya asked.

“We’ve traced Jack Dupree’s whereabouts back in an unbroken line to his primary school,” Mr Waverly replied. “Press clippings from his performances and all.”

“Deep cover?” Illya asked.

Mr Waverly harrumphed. “Perhaps someone completely expendable was what Marton wanted. Someone with nothing to tell us if he was caught.” Mr Waverly set aside the folder and reached for his pipe. “Either way, we have learned something unexpected as a result. Dr Sawada, select and brief a scientific team for departure to the island in the next 24-hours. Orders to increase its security perimeter have already been given.”

“Yes, sir. I have a few experiments that I will need to reassign before I depart,” Yukio Sawada answered.

“You will not be leading the expedition, Dr Sawada. I need you here to follow up on your experiment with the plant. The five days of medical leave I am requiring Mr Kuryakin take will be an ideal opportunity for you to observe the effects of his proximity on the plant’s development. Mr Solo will be returning from California tomorrow evening, however, it isn’t likely that either of them will remain in New York for any extended period of time, so you will be essential to the continuity of the experiment. If there is merit to your hypothesis that the plant responds to particular humans, we do not want to jeopardise the research by depriving it of all three of the people to whom it appears to have become accustomed.” 

 

*** 

The door unlocked silently. After what he’d learned at headquarters and on the ride home with Dr Sawada, Napoleon expected Illya to be asleep. Napoleon shut the door with the finesse of his trade and took a deep breath of the sweet air of home. Early evening shadows filled the living room; only the balcony was still catching the light. It washed over Illya, tingeing his white trousers and tee shirt with sunset hues. Stealthily, Napoleon approached; set his bag on the sofa, removed his shoes. He paused in the balcony doorway and scanned the recumbent form. Illya was stretched out on the chaise lounge, one bare foot on the floor. There was a spade nearby, smudges of dirt at his knees and across his belly. A grimy hand rested on his chest, rising and falling gently with his respiration. His other hand dangled off the far side of the chaise, fingertips sunk into the dirt of a long flowerbox that hadn’t been there when Napoleon left.

A melody of motors and horns and distant sirens floated up from the street. On the balcony, a bumblebee droned. It lit on Illya’s forehead, walked over a few strands of hair towards his eyebrow. Before Napoleon could move, a bough brushed past Illya’s face. The distracted insect burrowed into a half-open flower on the bough, buzzing loudly. _Okay._ Illya mumbled and turned his head. Napoleon surveyed the balcony. The little plant had grown tall in its pot in the corner, its stalks bright with clusters of white flowers. One long branch lie along the balustrade, secured in two places by strips of gauze, nearly bare of open leaves, but studded with buds. It was its tip that had shooed the bee towards the blossoms in the corner. Napoleon looked at the chestnut tree and beyond it to the park. Not a leaf appeared to be stirring. _Right, then._

Napoleon stepped closer. “Protecting the homestead in our absence, I hear,” he whispered. A couple tattered leaves swayed. “Looks like it was quite the battle.” He touched the bandaged stem lightly. “And keeping the sleepy one safe for me?”

“I can keep myself perfectly safe,” Illya said, without opening his eyes.

“In your sleep?” Napoleon asked. He moved a half-empty watering can and sat down on a stool next to Illya.

“Especially in my sleep,” he said, “gives me the element of surprise.”

“Yes, you often surprise me in your sleep,” Napoleon replied, brushing his fingers over the back of Illya’s hand. Illya snorted. “People don’t usually wear white for gardening.”

“There were certain indications that you rather liked the pool boy outfit,” Illya said, the corners of his lips curling upwards, his eyes still closed. 

Napoleon sputtered.

“I suppose out in California you spent rather a lot of time poolside,” Illya continued.

“I was lucky if I made it out of headquarters every couple days,” Napoleon said, his fingers curling around Illya’s wrist. “I hear you didn’t leave at all.”

“Saved the commuting time,” Illya replied. “And food was readily available.”

Napoleon grimaced. “The canteen, full time?”

“Such the hedonist, Napoleon. Between Lisa and Yukio, someone was always putting palatable food within easy reach.”

“No wonder you didn’t bother to come home. Anyone pushing you into bed on a regular basis?” Napoleon asked. Illya raised an eyebrow. “Alone!” Napoleon clarified, tightening his hold on Illya’s wrist. “When I heard Mr Waverly had given you five days of medical leave, I expected to find you with at least one missing limb.” Napoleon pressed his thumb into the centre of Illya’s palm. “And _all_ you did was skimp on some shut eye.”

Illya smiled fully and stretched. “Well, it’s not going to be five days of rest and relaxation, you know. Yukio’s got all sorts of tests planned.” 

“He gave me the short version on the ride over,” Napoleon said. 

Illya opened his eyes. “You do have a tan.” 

“You know their canteen’s on the roof,” Napoleon countered. 

“Speaking of provisions, there’re some excellent left-overs in the fridge.”

“I’m touched you thought of me,” Napoleon murmured, the fingers of his other hand working their way under the hem of Illya’s tee-shirt.

“Important to keep your strength up,” Illya replied.

Napoleon growled and nipped at the base of Illya’s thumb. “Energy level is just fine.” He looked Illya in the eye as he worried the flesh between his teeth.

Illya’s smile disappeared. “I was beginning to think they were going to keep you in California.” 

Napoleon ran his tongue over the flesh he’d been gnawing. “So was I, until Chen and MacDougal finally surfaced. April and Mark went out to handle the second phase of their mission, so they could come back.” Napoleon kept hold of Illya’s hand, massaging between the fingers, one after the other. “And a new regulation has been born: the two most senior teams can’t be out at the same time.” He brushed his lips over Illya’s wrist. “So we’re stuck in town until Mark and April get back.”

“We’re going to need more field agents,” Illya said, stretching again. Napoleon’s lips moved from Illya’s wrist to the inside of his elbow.

“Westcott’s training a group of likely Section Three agents to see how fast he can get at least one more team field ready.” Napoleon’s fingers tightened. “Westcott can’t help it that he looks like a member of THRUSH Central, Napoleon.”

Napoleon leaned forward and rubbed his cheek along Illya’s stomach. “Maybe not,” he muttered, “but he can help the way he stares at you.”

Illya laughed and Napoleon rubbed harder. “We should decamp to a less awkward location,” Illya said, lifting this foot off the floor and settling it high on Napoleon’s thigh.

Napoleon shifted forward and Illya’s foot slipped higher. “My very thoughts, except you seem rooted to the spot,” Napoleon replied. Illya stopped laughing. Napoleon raised his head and peered over the arm of the chaise at the flowerbox. He squinted at the half-buried fingers of Illya’s other hand. “Are you?” he whispered.

Illya pushed against Napoleon’s thigh and sat up. “Hand me the watering can.” Napoleon passed it along. As water trickled down Illya’s fingers, two pale green stems were revealed to be curving around his fingers. “I planted the seeds this morning,” Illya said.

“O-kay,” Napoleon said. “And you’ve been asleep since.”

Illya glanced at the darkening sky. “Since lunch,” he said. He reached down with his other hand and nudged the tiny tendril away from his little finger; it wavered above the soil for an instance before falling sideways onto it. He folded back all his fingers except his index finger. A sprout had made two circuits above his knuckle. “Grab a few swizzle sticks,” Illya said. Napoleon drew his hands away and stood, eyes still on Illya’s fingers. Illya touched the tiny leaves at the tip of the seedling. “You need something taller to grow around,” he said to it.

“How many seeds?” Napoleon called as he crossed the living room to the liquor cabinet. 

“Four,” Illya said.

With the corner of a nail, Illya unwound the fragile stem.

“Here,” Napoleon said, holding out four mixers.

Illya raised an eyebrow. “Different colours?” he remarked, picking the green stick. 

“Well, we’ve just been calling the plant, the plant, but with four new ones we’re going to need some differentiation,” Napoleon said.

Illya looped one seedling around the green stick and held out his hand for another. Napoleon gave him a blue one. As he threaded Seedling Blue about the stick, Illya asked, “Did Yukio tell you about the growth chart?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said. “You’re definitely the favourite.”

Illya glanced up at Napoleon for an instant. “Did he mention the inexplicable growth spurt?”

“Puberty?” Napoleon replied, sitting down on the bottom of the chaise. Illya frowned. “No.” Napoleon concluded and draped his arm over Illya’s shoulder. 

“Remember a certain evening down in the labs when you were rather impatient?” Illya said.

“You’re joking, right?” Napoleon asked.

“I cross-referenced the date with the mission from which we were recovering,” Illya said. “I believe you recall your physical therapy.”

“Yours was much more effective,” Napoleon replied as his hand smoothed over Illya’s back in broad circles.

“Apparently for more than you,” Illya said. “Another stick.” He held out his hand. 

“Is there a third one?” Napoleon said, holding out the remaining sticks.

“We may as well give the other two a good start,” Illya said, poking an orange stick into the dirt near a small indentation that marked where he’d planted the third seed. He flicked a few grains of dirt aside. “There is a sprout still half in the seed husk,” he said.

Napoleon tapped Illya’s arm with the last stick. “Want to see if we can produce another growth spurt?”

Illya placed the clear plastic stirrer near the end of the flower box. Napoleon’s arm curved around Illya’s stomach. “It’s nearly dark,” Napoleon cajoled. “There’s only the park in front of us and the next balcony over on that side is mine.” Napoleon smiled against Illya’s shoulder, his fingers skimming along Illya’s stomach just below his waistband.

“You’re serious,” Illya said.

Napoleon murmured assent. “I’ve been gone a long time.” His fingertips kneaded warm skin. “Swing your legs over.”

“The bedroom is a few steps away,” Illya said as he lifted the armrest and moved his legs.

“Too far,” Napoleon whispered. He pressed his face against the side of Illya’s head and inhaled. “I dreamt about how you smell.” He moved closer, pulled Illya against his hip. “When you’ve been sleeping or out in the sun.”

“Sweat,” Illya said, but he unsnapped the top of his trousers, so Napoleon’s hand could move more freely.

“That has its appeal,” Napoleon said, angling his head to kiss Illya’s neck.

Illya let his had loll back and his eyes half close. “It’s getting a bit cool, but we’ll see what we can do.”

Napoleon shook his head. “The smell I mean is sweeter and its always there, underneath the scent of soap or gunpowder or sweat.” Napoleon lifted a leg and twisted about until it was curved around Illya’s hips. “I missed it.”

“It or me?” Illya asked. Napoleon nipped the skin at the join of the neck and shoulder. “Sure you don’t want to move inside.”

“For round two,” Napoleon said. His arm and leg tightened, his hand stroked and his mouth tried for skin lower on Illya’s chest and got a mouthful of cloth. Illya reached down for the hem and pulled his tee-shirt over his head. Napoleon bent his head, lips on warmer skin and his hand sped up.

*** 

“And copies of the third pathologist’s report,” Mr Waverly said and spun the table. Illya grabbed the first folder and scanned the results.

“Acute myocardial infarction, evidence of at least one prior incident in the previous six months, possibly of the silent variety. Chemical traces: nicotine, carbon monoxide, nitroglycerine,” Illya read. “Nitroglycerine?”

“There had been a demonstration of a new explosive for field use in the morning. Traffic on the way back from the test site was heavy due to an accident earlier in the day, exhaust would have been drawn in by the car’s airconditioning. Sean was stricken as he was exiting his vehicle in the parking garage on his return to headquarters,” Napoleon read.

“Recommendations: better ventilation and filtration,” Illya continued reading. He snorted as he scanned the next line. “Helicopter transport, quarterly rather than semi-annual check-ups after age fifty and no smoking.” Illya did not lift his eyes from the paper.

“Check schedules for combination of risk exposures, reduce stress…” Napoleon laughed. “Sorry, sir.”

“No need to apologise, Mr Solo. It is laughable in our line of work, although I suppose an eye could be kept on the scheduling aspect at headquarters and the air quality, of course.” He picked up his pipe and put it down again. “Not a luxury agents in the field can enjoy.”

“So not a THRUSH assassination,” Napoleon said.

“Not as far as any of the tests at our disposal can verify,” Mr Waverly replied. “And they checked for oleandrin at my request.”

“So not absolutely certain,” Illya concluded.

“As so much in life,” Mr Waverly said. “We will miss Sean’s experience, but his death has forced us to put more detailed procedures in place to ease the transition when regional and continental heads leave the organisation. We were fortunate neither of you gentlemen were in the field. Next time we will not have to rely on luck.” Mr Waverly levelled a look at Napoleon.

“Sir,” he said.

“That will be all, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin,” Mr Waverly concluded. He flipped a switch on his desk. “Please send Mr Westcott in, Miss Rogers.”

The door slid open as Illya and Napoleon approached. Westcott’s form filled the doorway. He saw Illya and beamed, stepping back to let him and Napoleon pass with a wave of his arm before he disappeared into Mr Waverly’s office.

Napoleon nodded at Lisa and strode on towards the elevator, brows lowering. He was still scowling when they got back to their office.

“Napoleon,” Illya taunted.

Napoleon turned, finger pointed at Illya. “He literally cannot see you without looking as though he wants to fall on his knees.” Napoleon flung himself into his chair.

Illya chuckled. 

Napoleon glared at the papers on his desk and made a noise deep in his throat which he hoped sounded as though he was clearing it. What it sounded like was a growl.

*** 

At the end of the day, Dr Sawada slipped into the elevator as the doors were closing. “Gentlemen,” he said to Napoleon and Illya. “The first report from the island arrived today. I just passed a copy to Mr Waverly.”

“What news?”

“Other than the gardens being overgrown,” Sawada shrugged, “the earlier details were for security only, the botany team found nothing to report.” Yukio pursed his lips and scrutinised the ceiling.

“You think they’re missing it,” Illya said.

Napoleon stared at Dr Sawada’s profile. “You’ve made a recommendation.”

Dr Sawada tilted his head.

“You recommended you go and we go with you, didn’t you?” Illya said.

“I think it might be very specific,” Yukio Sawada said. “Perhaps specific to the circumstances that existed at the time you were there and that seed was ripening or possibly specific to one or both of you. I think we should explore the second possibility first. If we eliminate that, we can consider trying to duplicate the factors present on the day the facility was destroyed.”

“And if we’re the causative factor, then we needn’t bother with such an expensive experiment at all,” Napoleon said.

Yukio smiled. “Mr Waverly said Ms Dancer and Mr Slate are due back next week. The weather would be lovely on the island this time of year.”

“And the plants here?” Illya asked.

“I trained one of my staff in the plant’s care over the winter,” Dr Sawada said. “Dr Nader lives in our building, too. If we leave a supply of organic material,” Yukio glanced at Illya, “they should be fine for the two weeks I estimate you would need to remain on the island.”

“Eating fresh fruit, sleeping in the fragrant shade of tropical foliage,” Napoleon said. “We’ve endured worse missions.”

“I’d be amazed if Mr Waverly approved it,” Illya said, “but you never know.”

*** 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tour guide said into his microphone as the bus approached the traffic light, “if you will look to your left, you will see one of the most magnificent floral displays in New York City outside of Central Park proper.” Fifty heads turned dutifully left. “For the past decade, The Rosebay Building has bloomed year round to the delight of all in the neighbourhood.”

“Isn’t rosebay another name for oleander?” a snowy-haired woman asked.

The guide consulted his notes for an instant. “It is, indeed, ma’am, although the shrubs on the balconies and around the roof garden of The Rosebay Building are a special hybrid that can withstand our New York winters. Ordinary oleanders grow in warmer climes.”

“That’s the biggest florist shop I’ve ever seen,” a young boy exclaimed. “I like the blue ones best,” he added, pointing several balconies on the top floor. He tapped his mother on her shoulder. “Can we buy some?”

“I think the yellow ones are prettier,” his sister replied, pointing to the balconies on the floor below. “Can we get some?” she asked, leaning towards her mother. “Taking care of plants is very educational,” she added. The light turned green and the bus lurched forward. 

The guide grasped the hand rail and answered, “They aren’t for sale, I’m afraid. The building is comprised of private residences. Now if you will look to your right as we approach the corner, you will see…”

 

Napoleon rested his head on Illya’s shoulder and peered out through the foliage.

“We’ve become a tourist attraction,” Illya said, indicating the bus with his coffee cup.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Napoleon replied, slipping his arms around Illya’s waist and swaying slowly from side to side. “Effective technique.”

“We’ll upset the neighbours,” Illya murmured and drained his cup.

“They can’t see us either. Look up.” 

Illya craned his neck. The branches to either side of them where leaning towards one another over their heads. “You’ve been training them.”

Napoleon clicked his tongue in denial. “Our flowery friends like it when we’re frisky,” Napoleon answered, “and they’re very mindful of your modesty.” The leaves rustled and Napoleon unwound one arm to lift the back of Illya’s bathrobe. 

Illya left his head resting on Napoleon’s shoulder. He didn’t need to look down to know the plants would have flattened their leaves over the openings in the balustrade.

“Secure in our bower,” Napoleon said, one hand firm on Illya’s hip, the other pushing his own garments out of the way.

Illya took a deep breath and turned his face so Napoleon could reach his mouth. The fragrance was especially strong today. He let his eyes close when Napoleon moved on to kiss his brow and his hair. “Do you think everyone realises? There wasn’t a memo.”

Napoleon laughed. “Considering the waiting lists for flats here, I’d say yes. If this building wasn’t made of stone, I think it would rock some nights.”

“Morale has been high,” Illya agreed, turning around. “Quinn tells me that at the end of the day a lot of staff congregate in the parking garage since the shrubs were planted by the ramps. He said it’s getting to be like a drive-in…drive-in…”

“Movie,” Napoleon supplied just before Illya latched onto his throat.

“Mmm,” Illya murmured. He rubbed his thumb over the bite mark. “That was it. And I happen to know that Mrs Del Floria has been bringing Mr Del Floria his lunch every day for several years now. She packs an extra dessert for me.”

Napoleon tightened his grip on Illya’s hip. “The boughs do look quite charming twined over the front door,” Napoleon said. “Not deadly at all.”

“They were keeping the clean-up crews quite busy for a while. Do you think THRUSH has finally given up trying to break in?”

“Through there at least,” Napoleon replied. “I will continue vetoing the annual proposal to try the plants out in the canteen though.”

“There is that fine balance between strong morale and getting work done,” Illya observed.

“Mm,” was all that Napoleon said.

oooooooooooooooooooo

**Author's Note:**

> When I think of Paul Westcott from _The Deadly Decoy Affair_ , I always think of Utopian Trunks’s version of him in the fabulous story, [The Triangle Affair](http://muncle.livejournal.com/621166.html).


End file.
